


Animus

by quixartically



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Familiars, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21870607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixartically/pseuds/quixartically
Summary: In a world where your soul take the form of an animal, you must choose who you trust very carefully. Sherlock and Mycroft are determine to never trust anyone enough to display their Soul to them. But when they are exposed by chance, they end up finding that those they can trust have been in front of them all along.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This story will alternate chapter by chapter between Sherlock and Mycroft. This story is based off of an original work I am currently writing, which is inspired by Philip Pullman's "The Golden Compass". Please ask before using this format, and credit me! Thank you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is kind of just a second intro. Not much happens.

When Sherlock was young, he used to let his Soul run rampant with him. She was large, for their ages, even when she Manifested when they were seven. They were late bloomers, so to say, yet they took nearly half the normal time to get used to each other. 

Cornelius, Mycroft's Soul, said that Souls took longer to get used to their Keepers than for us Keepers to get used to their Souls, and Mycroft agreed. This, of course, annoyed Sherlock and his Soul immensely and they forced theirselves to coexist. Finally, when they were ten years old, Sherlock's soul let him name her. 

It took him quite a while to choose- though that was often normal from one naming their Soul for the first time. He finally decided on Indigo, the colour of her eyes. 

Taking the form of a panther, Indigo was much larger than most of the other Souls Sherlock normally saw. She was well behaved, though other Souls at school rarely listened to their Keepers. She would often scoff at them and tell them that life was much easier coexisting with Keepers. _"After all, you damn well won't get rid of them. And if you try, you'll become Stardust or worse: your Keeper will become Lost."_ This often snapped them out of it. 

Lost Keepers were not uncommon. Though Keepers and Souls were linked, they were still separate entities. If a Soul's Keeper died, they would cease to exist, going back to the universe of which they were made of, become Stardust and waiting in the sky to become another Soul. It was the way they were meant to be. Keepers, however had a much worse fate if their Souls died before them. The Keepers would lose all meaning in their life and have no guidance.

Many Lost Keepers would stumble about in the streets of major cities, hoping someone would give them money so they could do drugs to keep their spirits. Some turned to crime, wreaking havoc on those who still had their Souls, irrationally trying to take them for themselves, to fill what empty void they had in them. Most couldn't live with themselves and they'd take their own lives. 

Sherlock was very close to becoming Lost when he was just fifteen years old, and because of it, he chose never to _ever_ let anyone near Indigo again. On his orders, she stays in her room if he's out and never around him if his parents have company. His parents, of course think this is very unorthodox. They scolded him on how lonely she must be when he is away, but Sherlock's answer is always the same.

"I very nearly lost her and I bloody well won't let it happen again!" He'd shout, face flushed and sweating with the memory. Surprisingly, Mycroft and Cornelius agreed with him and did the same, if only to show their parents that it was a lifestyle that could be lived by easily.

Though as a ferret, Cornelius could simply just hide away in Mycroft's inner coat pocket and Mycroft would never have to deal with any symptoms. No wonder they get fat; Cornelius, lounging in Mycroft's coat and feeding on cake crumbs in his spare time, and Mycroft never having to skip taxis to keep himself from acknowledging the itch deep within him, begging him to keep his Soul by his side. Sherlock is determined never to let anyone see Indigo. To keep her safe, though it pained them both. And he had a perfect record.

That is until John Watson came along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HULLO! Those of you who have read these early on (Before 1/27/2020) may have noticed that I have 1. Switched my Perspective of View from first person to third person (basically instead of saying "I, Gregory Lestrade, have a very fine bottom indeed," [sorry, not sorry] I am now saying, "Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector, has quite the fine bottom indeed, and the author would really like to -" [SORRY, NOT SORRY] If that makes any sense at all.)  
> 2\. I have added a bit of detail and extra information. SO! If you are reading this After 1/27/2020, and you have read the chapters before this date, I encourage you to go back and reread them because they have quite a bit added!!!  
> That's all. Happy reading!  
> -otakusebby


	2. Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This FanFiction is based off of an idea that I had while daydreaming at work. I expanded it by mixing a bit of my own ideas with bits of Philip Pullman's Dark Materials Series (The Golden Compass, if you know the movie.) I, of course, in no way possible own the characters, setting, or anything else in Sherlock (though, I'd really like to own Lestrade's perfect behind [sorry, not sorry]), nor do I own any direct quotes or references from the Golden Compass film, or any of the books by Philip Pullman. Thank you, and do enjoy.

_"Sherlock is looking for a flatmate."_ Cornelius informed Mycroft. He didn't speak often, but when he did it was serious and straight to the point. Mycroft grunted in affirmation. _"Do you think that is wise for Indigo?"_ the pale ferret wondered. Mycroft's eyebrows knit together. Cornelius worried about Indigo the same way he worried for his younger brother; constantly though they tried never to show it. 

"Sherlock knows what is best for his Soul." The British Government replied simply. "He doesn't show it, but he is still quite scarred from her injury."

Cornelius huffed _"He should be."_ He leapt from his Keeper's coat and onto the desk, scattering a few papers. Mycroft scowled. _"If those scissors would have gone in just centimetres more, he would be Lost!"_

The memory of Sherlock's temporary Lost state when Indigo was recovering made Mycroft's skin crawl. He would very much like to never have the image of his fifteen year old brother sneaking out at night to find hard drugs to keep himself from hurting. In fact, if Mycroft hadn't followed him that night, he wasn't sure that his annoying sibling would still be around. "That's enough, Cornelius." Mycroft scolded.  
 _"But Mycroft-!"_  
"I said that's quite enough!" the man snapped. The small silver haired animal shut it's tiny mouth and sighed, reading its Keeper's emotions like an open book.

 _"Of course. Apologies."_ He whispered, hopping off the desk. _"I'll be napping if you don't mind. Don't work yourself to death please. I've always been afraid of heights and the stars are quite up there."_ The tiny rodent waddled toward the temporary nest he had made behind a filing cabinet.

Mycroft smiled rarely at the soft banter and restacked his papers. Most days it felt as if Cornelius was the only one who cared for him. Except Mum of course, but she didn't count. She was a mum. It was her job to care for her children.

Mycroft tried to immerse himself into paperwork, tedious paragraphs about new legislation, extra safety precautions for the Queen's horses, and the the like, but couldn't focus. If he was being entirely truthful, he couldn't help but worry about Sherlock finding a flatmate.

His younger brother had a talent- no a penchant for attracting trouble, and it would not be surprising if he managed to become the flatmate of a serial killer. In fact, if it had a case attached to it, he was certain he would request a serial killer to share his home.

Finally he just set down his pen and opened laptop, pulling open the GPS tracker he had put on Sherlock's mobile. It appeared that he was at St. Bart's morgue, doing god knows what. To say that Mycroft approved of his career choice would be a hell-seeking lie. His 'consulting detective' business had gotten him into trouble many many _many_ times and had given Mycroft more than half of the gray hairs on his quickly balding head.

Mycroft was snapped out of his thoughts by his office phone buzzing. His secretary's voice rang out after a moment.  
"You've got a visitor, Master Holmes." he stated simply, knowing that Mycroft detested useless chatter.

  
The tired older Holmes sighed. "Send him in then." he stood himself in front of the door to greet the mystery visitor. The door opened.

And a massive Soul jumped onto his chest, knocking him over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HULLO! Those of you who have read these early on (Before 1/27/2020) may have noticed that I have 1. Switched my Perspective of View from first person to third person (basically instead of saying "I, Gregory Lestrade, have a very fine bottom indeed," [sorry, not sorry] I am now saying, "Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector, has quite the fine bottom indeed, and the author would really like to -" [SORRY, NOT SORRY] If that makes any sense at all.)  
> 2\. I have added a bit of detail and extra information. SO! If you are reading this After 1/27/2020, and you have read the chapters before this date, I encourage you to go back and reread them because they have quite a bit added!!!  
> That's all. Happy reading!  
> -otakusebby


	3. Sherlock- A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets an army doctor by the name of John Watson and decides that he would be an adequate flatmate. He confuses him a bit, quite to the amusement of Mike Stamford, and the annoyance of John's Soul, Jax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, chapters are going to be quite a bit longer! As you can see, I am sticking nearly word for word to the storyline of Sherlock on BBC, and therofore would like to disclaim that I do not own any of the characters, nor the plot line.

Sherlock looked at the old man's corpse skeptically and took a soft sniff. An odor was present, but it had not yet had the time to become putrid. "How fresh?" He wondered out loud, glancing quickly up at Molly and her Soul, Wendy, a white angora rabbit, who despised him.

The rabbit’s pink nose twitched with dislike. _“Just in.”_ She said. _“Sixty- seven, natural causes.”_ She hopped forward on a table that was specifically designed for her use, a small protective lab coat draped across her shoulders. Sherlock made a face at her immaturely.

“He used to work here,” Molly spoke up, voice squeaking a bit as it did whenever he was around. “I knew him! He was nice.” Sherlock rolled his eyes softly at the clear attraction that Molly showed to him.

“Fine.” He said, zipping the black bag back up and turning to smile softly at Molly. “We’ll start with the riding crop.”

Molly flushed nearly purple, and Sherlock could practically hear the thoughts in her head. Poor Molly was a classmate of his in his general studies during Uni. She was probably the closest thing that Sherlock had to a friend, though he truly didn’t believe that anyone could tolerate him enough to call him that. She had gotten his attention when she had corrected a professor unabashedly during a Human Anatomy lecture. Most had laughed at her -causing her to blush, of course- because surely the tiny girl knew nothing more than the elderly professor did, though Sherlock was clearly not the only one impressed when the professor checked his notes and pronounced her correct, fixing his mistake. Molly was very intelligent indeed, though she was shy enough not to show it often.

Later that day he had approached her and asked her what had possessed her to correct the professor. She had fidgeted, saying that the midterm was only a week from then and she hadn’t wanted anyone to fail due to misinformation. Since then, Molly had taken a permanent spot in his mobile contacts and had frequently helped him with experiments. He had only recently started to recognise the clear signs of her developing attraction towards him. This perturbed him, as he was sure he would break the heart of someone like Molly.

So he chose to play dumb.

Perhaps that was why Wendy hated him so.

Sherlock forced himself out of his thought and grabbed the riding crop from his coat. In the time that it had taken for his mind to wander, Molly had prepared the body thoroughly, laying the old man on a metal cadaver. She was standing awkwardly next to him.

“You may want to stand outside. Just incase skin is broken.” Sherlock suggested. “Wouldn’t want to dirty your new blouse.” Molly flushed and nodded, stepping outside. Sherlock began to promptly beat the everloving shit out of the poor dead man.

When he finished, he looked up to see that Molly was watching, fascinated and he sighed, knowing that he would never make her happy in the way that she wanted him to. The risk for Indigo was far too great, not to mention that he had never had feelings for anyone before. He was starting to believe that it just wasn’t in his biology to feel attraction.

Sherlock shook his head, calling Molly over and reminding himself that he would need to spend more time with Indigo tonight – his melancholy thoughts were back.

“Bad day, was it?” Molly asked, jokingly. Sherlock didn’t answer, and instead began taking notes on _precisely_ where he had hit the man.

“I need to know what bruises form during the next twenty minutes, a man’s alibi depends on it. Text me.” he said quickly. He heard Molly inhale slightly before words blurted from her mouth.

“Listen, I was wondering- maybe later – when you’re finished, of course...” Dear God, not already. Sherlock was hoping he had at least a week before she gathered the courage to ask him out. He quickly looked over her, trying to find something to change the subject. Ah!

“Are you wearing lipstick, you weren’t wearing lipstick before.” Sherlock asked hurriedly. Molly faltered a bit.

“I erhm… _refreshed_ it a bit.” Of course she didn’t, Sherlock would have recognised even a slight tint to her lips, he spent far too much time around her. 

“Ah. Sorry, you were saying?” And just why, Sherlock Holmes, would you say a thing like that, you’re not _supposed_ to encourage her.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.”

Oh, the amount of ways he could respond was nearly overwhelming. He didn’t want to completely break her, so a direct ‘no’ was out of the question. He chose a decidedly ‘Sherlock’ answer.

“Black, two sugars, I’ll be upstairs.” He promptly fled, having absolutely no experience with women- or anyone, to be clear- asking for his company outside of business. He got upstairs and sighed softly, leaning against the hallway wall. He hoped that he hadn’t just destroyed the -dare he say- friendship that they had accumulated. He stood there for a second, shaking off the horror of his former classmate asking him on a coffee date and him nearly blatantly expressing that he wasn’t interested.

 _“That was very poor of you, Sherlock Holmes.”_ Sherlock opened his eyes to see Wendy, hopping gracefully up the stairs.

“Haven’t any idea what you mean, Rabbit.” Sherlock stated, moving towards a door labeled ‘Sherlock’s Laboratory. Enter with care.’ He opened the door and located powdered sodium and a few other chemicals. His current experiment was to see if he could stop the metal from exploding on contact with water by adding a few other compounds.

 _“You don’t expect me to believe that you are_ that _clueless, do you?”_ Wendy scolded. _“Poor Molly has been absolutely nerve wrecked about that conversation and you’ve hurt her.”_

Sherlock felt a bit guilty at that, though he didn’t show it. “She’s much better off with someone who can make her happy.” He said. “I’m doing her a favor.” He grabbed a can of something and prepared to mix it with the sodium metal dust.

Wendy was quiet for a moment. _“You could have at least let her down easier, instead of being an ars- No, Sherlock! Don’t add hydrogen, you’ll destroy the room!”_ Sherlock ignored her and dropped a bit of water in the beaker, covering it quickly and running to hide behind a far table, stopping to pick up the sassy Soul in the process. Less than thirty seconds later a large explosion sounded through the room.

The beaker had shattered and there was a scorch mark on the table. “See? Room is intact.” Sherlock smiled and began to clean up, while Wendy scurried from the room, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like _‘insufferable arsehead’._

Sherlock smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A knock resonated through the room, followed by the door opening. Sherlock was almost certain that he had gotten the compounds correct, and so he only looked up briefly, dropping a bit of water on the mixture. To his surprise, it _wasn’t_ Molly. In fact, it was Mike Stamford, a man he had helped after his wife received a mysterious stalker.

Mike had become quite friendly to him after he had ensured that the creep had been locked behind bars, and he had recently spoken to him about anyone he might know that would take him as a flat mate. As far as he -or anyone else, for that matter- knew he _had_ lost Indigo that night twelve years ago and had simply taken it very well indeed. Therefore, finding a flatshare was extremely difficult, due to the fact that most Lost folks were seen as dangerous and unstable. Mike gave him a brief smile as his cockatoo Soul, James, lifted a wing in greeting.

He was followed by short, yet well maintained man and a massive albino lion. The lion in question was supporting nearly all of the man’s weight. Sherlock let his eyes linger a millisecond and a half longer on the man, as to gather as much information as possible.

His hair was cut short around his tanned neck and face -recent holiday? - nearly a buzz, his stature almost a perfect military attention stance. A soldier. Interesting.

“Bit different from our day, eh Jack?” He asked the lion, smiling a bit.

 _“You’ve no idea.”_ His Soul chuckled. “ _It was nearly thirteen years ago, now John. Things do tend to change.”_ The lion’s deep voice nearly shook the room with the power it portrayed.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows microscopically. The short conversation between the man -John? – and his Soul suggested frequent meetings at St. Bart’s, though his stance and obvious military affiliation eliminated any suggestion that he had spent time here for illness. Then again, before Sherlock got to it, this room was a training area. John was looking about the room, eyes catching on items that Sherlock had not removed and sparkling with recognition. Ah. So he wasn’t a soldier after all, but a doctor. After all, he could have been raised military.

Sherlock picked up his mobile and mentally cursed at the poor reception. “Mike, can I borrow your phone, there’s no reception on mine.” Mike looked annoyed.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” He asked gesturing to the dusty thing on a far counter.

“I prefer to text.” Sherlock said incredulously, as if it were obvious. Mike rolled his eyes and patted at his pockets.

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

“Oh, here.” John said suddenly, leaning heavily on his cane while holding his mobile out. “Use mine.”

“Oh… thank you.” Sherlock stood to take the beaten-up thing, noticing a tan line around his wrists. It ended just before his jumper sleeve did, ruling out a holiday- who would go abroad just to voluntarily keep long sleeves on? Realisation hit Sherlock. Trained in St. Bart’s, military stance and haircut, trip abroad without the luxury of sunbathing- John was a military doctor. And the cane he limped around on? An injury, no doubt, though he limped while walking but stood stoically, without taking the chair that was just centimeters away from him. His service must have been traumatic enough to cause psychosomatic symptoms. The tan suggested either Afghanistan or Iraq, but Sherlock could find any clues to identify which it was.

Sherlock turned his attention onto the phone. It was expensive. Had email _and_ Mp3. Surely, if Mike had brought him here, he was looking for flatshare as well, meaning he would most likely be unable to pay for such a phone. He turned it over. _‘Harry Watson, From Clara XXX,’_ had been inscribed on the back. Perhaps John was a nickname, Harry being his true name. As for the phone… A gift from a loved one? No. Sherlock glanced at John again. No wedding ring, and definitely no girlfriend, then man was clearly gay- ugly jumpers, immaculately soft skin, despite being in a war. It was obvious. Most likely a gift from family. A sister named Clara? No, the triple exes were clearly romantic. The scratches on the screen declared that it had been sat inside a pocket consistently with change and possibly even keys, though a phone this expensive would be a prized possession of John's -he'd never let it be damaged like this. Of course! John had a brother- Harry was clearly not his father, an older man would have immense difficulties navigating through a mobile of this calibre.

Though it could be a cousin, yet unlikely- John was a warhero, seeking shelter, and if he had extended family, they would no doubt take him in. So, his brother Harry, was married to Clara, then. They had fallen out- the phone was new, barely even six months old- and he had given the phone to his brother after leaving her, encouraging his younger sibling to keep in touch. Obvious.

He had noticed that Mycroft had been monitoring him again. And decided to leave him a little note. He scrolled past John’s contacts- none labelled ‘Harry’ they must not be close…- and typed in a quick message.

“An old friend of mine, John Watson.” Mike said.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked, ignoring Mike, who gave a knowing smile. He handed John his phone back.

John was speechless.

 _”I’m sorry?”_ The Lion – Jack- growled, defensively.

Sherlock turned and looked John in the eye. “Which was it Afghanistan or Iraq?” he repeated impatiently.

John looked to Jack and then to Mike in confusion. “Er… Afghanistan.” He said at nearly the same time that Jack opened his mouth.

 _“Sir, how did you kn-“_ He was interrupted by Molly, who had finally decided to bring him his coffee.

“Ah! Molly, coffee! Thank you.” he said kindly, taking the mug from her. He noticed that the slight pink tinge on her lips had been erased. His heart fell a bit. He hadn’t meant to hurt her that badly. “What happened to the lipstick?” He wondered aloud.

“Oh… it wasn’t working for me…” She stuttered.

Sherlock said the first thing that came to his mind. “Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth is too small now.” He felt Wendy bite his ankle and took a sip of his coffee to hide a wince. He was _awful_ with women.

“O-okay…” Molly squeaked, leaving the room quickly. Sherlock pursed his lips.

“How do you feel about the violin?” He asked John, dying to change the subject. He didn’t answer. Mike looked at him expectantly.

“I-I’m sorry, what?” He asked. Poor man must think Sherlock was loony.

“I play violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He added a small smile to the end of the sentence.

He turned to Mike. “Y-you told him about me?”

“Not a word.”

“Then who said anything about flatmates?”

Oh, how dull. John liked to ask stupid questions.

“I did.” Sherlock began to pull on my coat, preparing to go find the Detective Inspector to inquire about those serial suicides. “Told Mike just this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.” He tied his scarf firmly about his neck.

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?” John asked.

Sherlock ignored him. “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening seven o’ clock.” He realised just how rude he had been. “Sorry. Got to dash, think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” He walked past John towards the door.

“Is that it?” John asked, clearly annoyed.

Sherlock turned around. Another stupid question. “Is that _what?_ ”

“Well, we’ve just met and we’re going to go look at a flat.” There wasn’t a question to it.

“Problem?”

John chuckled.

 _“We don’t know a thing about each other.”_ Jack interrupted. _“We don’t know where we’re meeting. We haven't met your Soul. We don’t even know your name.”_

Sherlock looked at the Lion smugly. “I know John is an army doctor, and you’ve both been invalided home from Afghanistan.” The animal narrowed his eyes, a growl beginning in his throat, and ending as John set his hand in his mane to calm him.

He turned to the army doctor in question. “I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him. Possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. _And_ I know that your therapist thinks that your limp psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid. S’ enough to be going home with, don’t you think?” He opened the door and walked out, only stopping to poke his head back in, realising that he hadn’t answered the questions onto him.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. As for my Soul…” he winked and clicked his tongue before leaving, knowing full well that a very confused John Watson was giving a questioning look to Mike Stamford.

What _fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HULLO! Those of you who have read these early on (Before 1/27/2020) may have noticed that I have 1. Switched my Perspective of View from first person to third person (basically instead of saying "I, Gregory Lestrade, have a very fine bottom indeed," [sorry, not sorry] I am now saying, "Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector, has quite the fine bottom indeed, and the author would really like to -" [SORRY, NOT SORRY] If that makes any sense at all.)  
> 2\. I have added a bit of detail and extra information. SO! If you are reading this After 1/27/2020, and you have read the chapters before this date, I encourage you to go back and reread them because they have quite a bit added!!!  
> That's all. Happy reading!  
> -otakusebby


End file.
